


The Whole of Nature

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Dom/sub, Feeding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was like a begging puppy, always under heel, and Patrick usually lost half of his meal to Pete’s innocent grin and open mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whole of Nature

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: D/s, foodkink
> 
> Thanks to xolunchbox for the beta
> 
> (Originally posted February 5, 2009)

Pete never had any boundaries, so it wasn’t really a surprise when he would reach his hand into Patrick’s bag of chips or even snag a Twizzler out of his hand. Patrick would yell and slap at his hands, but Pete would just laugh and laugh and eat his prize. It wasn’t that much of a change when Pete actually started to take bites of pizza while Patrick was still holding onto the slice, lick the frosting off a cupcake Patrick was unwrapping. It was just _Pete_ , and it got to be second nature to just absentmindedly offer Pete a bite of whatever he was eating. Usually it was just finger food, snacks, popping a pretzel or two into Pete’s waiting mouth or letting him take a few sucking pulls on a Pop Ice, once in a while, when he had some kind of microwave dinner, a forkful of reconstituted beef. He was like a begging puppy, always under heel, and Patrick usually lost half of his meal to Pete’s innocent grin and open mouth.

Patrick didn’t realize it was a _thing_ for a long time. It was just Pete, just touring, and Pete’s habits were weird enough that Patrick didn’t _know_ he wasn’t eating at catering while Patrick skipped out to mess around on the drums for a while, or with the other guys. He didn’t know until they went home for a quick break and Pete called him from his parent’s house, flipping his shit because he couldn’t eat anything. It took almost two hours for Patrick to calm him down and convince him it was okay to eat his mom’s food without Patrick there. He hung up, and Dale didn’t call Patrick about why her oldest wasn’t eating, so disaster was averted. But after that, it was different.

Pete didn’t eat anything Patrick didn’t give him. It scared him for about twenty-six solid minutes, in which he freaked out, ran his hand under his hat enough times that he probably halved the viable hair still clinging on, and felt like throwing up. He couldn’t _do_ this, it was like having a new baby except Pete was more trouble than a baby could ever hope to be and he didn’t even get the satisfaction of having had sex to soften the blow. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t take that kind of responsibility--except he already had. He took care of Pete when Pete needed it, and Pete always needed someone’s attention. What were his choices, anyway? Tell Pete to stop this weird apparently involuntary thing? That would be more angst than it was worth. Quit the band? Yeah, sure. He’d been taking care of Pete in one form or another since he was still in high school. This wasn’t different. He could do this.

The guys didn’t say much about it when it had to be obvious that Pete only ate what Patrick gave him. Just once, after a group movie night when Pete leaned up against his shoulder, lazily eating popcorn that Patrick held up to him, Joe said “you and Pete, huh?” Patrick wanted to say no, not him and Pete, because they weren’t fucking, they were just…it was just a thing. But he nodded, because it didn’t really matter if they weren’t fucking, it meant the same to the rest of the world, and that was only true for another few days.

They argued, about something stupid like they always did, and Patrick got red in the face, and Pete’s smile got brittle and nasty. At the hotel that night, Patrick sat on the edge of the bed and held out a handful of M&Ms, coaxing Pete over to him with patient stillness, like you’d convince some skittish wild animal to come closer. Pete ate every one neatly out of Patrick’s palm, taking each one between his lips like a horse takes sugar cubes, and when all the candies were gone, he sucked one of Patrick’s fingers into his mouth. And after that night, he couldn’t say they weren’t fucking.

*

It’s a simple system they have worked out. There’s nothing showy, they don’t make a big deal out of it. Patrick makes food, or he has food, and if Pete is hungry, he comes and sits next to him and links his foot around Patrick’s ankle. They share pizza, a bite apiece, and forkfuls of noodles. Sometimes Patrick isn’t eating, and Pete will sidle up to him and hook his foot over, a silent request for food. And Patrick goes and gets some--or just reaches over to pick up whatever half-eaten bag of Doritos or Skittles is left on the table. They don’t draw attention to themselves; if it was anyone who didn’t get them, guys from other bands, they’d figure it was just Pete being weird. Andy and Joe _know_ that it’s Pete being weird, but they also understand that it’s more than that, and they don’t question it.

On a hotel night, Pete curls around Patrick’s hip and closes his eyes while Patrick finds himself ordering another entrée with every swipe of Pete’s fingers over his throat. He’s placed an order for practically the whole menu, with a voice that trembles just a little when the callous on Pete’s forefinger brushes the tendon in his neck. Pete loves that, playing with Patrick’s self-control, acting like _he’s_ the one running this game. And maybe he is--Patrick didn’t start it, and he won’t finish it. If tomorrow, Pete wandered into the bus crunching Bugles, Patrick would let it go. He wouldn’t press the issue, not if Pete didn’t. It’s not his _thing_ , after all. It’s Pete’s.

Still, when the bellboy that delivered the food gives him one of those Looks, Patrick feels a delicious little thrill. Because he doesn’t know, no one but them _really_ knows. This is for Pete, and Patrick is the only one who can give it to him.

On a night like this, he gives up on any last vestige of the “We eat our dinner at the table, because we’re a family and I haven’t seen you all day, now eat your meatloaf” his mom instilled in him from a young age. Living on his own when, sometimes, he didn’t even own a table, and then in vans and motels and buses and hotels where tables were at IHOP, he doesn’t feel the same kind of rebellious tension he used to when he just eats dinner wherever he happens to be. But he still likes to be at least upright, as a general rule, as though he _could_ be eating at a table, if a table were right in front of him.

Pete has already stripped when Patrick wheels the cart over to the side of the bed. He barely prods Pete enough to get him to prop himself up on some pillows, just because they’ve had some exciting times with sore necks and, memorably, the Heimlich maneuver. He takes a plate from the cart and sets it in his lap. French fries.

He feeds Pete each fry, dipping it in salt and then ketchup, just like how he’s learned Pete likes it. Pete’s mouth is always open, waiting, and after the whole plate, his eyes are still open and bright, wanting.

The burger is next. He tried once to cut one into bite-sized pieces but Pete insisted it didn’t even count as a burger anymore. So he holds it in front of Pete’s mouth so he can lean forward to take too big bites, and watches hot juices from the meat run down Pete’s chin while he gets ketchup smeared around the corners of his mouth. There’s nothing sexy about it, except for how hard it makes him.

He feeds Pete chicken strips, and some roast duck, sips of water and Coke. Pete has to be full, Patrick knows that, but even though his eyes drift close, his mouth stays open. And he’s hard against his belly, leaving wet smears of precome when he breathes in too hard and when he swallows.

When Patrick reaches for the breadsticks, he turns around to find Pete with his mouth pressed closed, cheeks flushed. And it’s Patrick’s turn.

He barely manages to get his mouth next to Pete’s cock before Pete’s thrusting up, rocking his hips hopefully, needily upwards, the head of his cock smearing wet against Patrick‘s cheek. Patrick puts a hand on each hip and holds him down when he takes Pete into his mouth, sucking hard and loving how his fingertips can press into Pete’s belly, firm and full, and just the slightest bit rounded.

Pete never lasts long, and Patrick doesn’t mind, just swallows him down when Pete comes with an almost surprised grunt. He plays with Pete when he gets soft in his mouth, licking and sucking and almost nibbling, until Pete groans and tries to squirm away, and he has to pull off. He still gets to use his mouth, though, licking the drying precome off Pete’s little belly, and then kissing away the mess still around his mouth.

Pete rolls over onto his side, obediently but with another groan followed by a miserable belch that tells Patrick he overdid it. He knows better than to let Pete do what he wants, there’s a reason Pete leaves things like this up to him, but he let Pete push himself too far. He traces his fingers gently over Pete’s belly, keeping his hips back, but Pete shakes his head. “No, fuck, please? It’s cool, I promise. I’m good.”

It’s not right, he should just leave Pete to rest, but he’s been hard all along too, and. God, he’s so close. He sits up and strips out of his clothes, flailing just a little to get his boxers off, and lies back down, rolling over to fit himself against Pete’s back. His cock slides between Pete’s cheeks, and that will do. Pete will probably throw up if Patrick fucks him when he’s like this, so he humps at Pete’s ass, feeling teenaged and ridiculous, but not enough to stop. He does fit his hand over Pete’s belly while his dick slides sweet and smooth, cupping the little curve left after all that food.

Pete falls asleep practically the instant after Patrick comes over his back, but Patrick stays awake, touching slowly. They’ll end up stuck together, and Pete will call him a skeezy asshole in the morning, in between nasty-tasting kisses, but for now he can feel. The start of love handles, flesh over Pete’s hips that maybe bulges out the slightest bit when he insists on shoving himself into pants that no one should ever fit in. And he can soothe, rubbing his fingers in gentle circles across Pete’s belly, rubbing away the gurgles that seem loud enough to wake anyone who doesn’t sleep like the dead like Pete--it takes a lot to take him down, but once he’s down, he’s _down_. Pete’s getting older, and his edges are softening, but it’s okay. They’re happy. Someday Perez Hilton will call him fat, and they’ll fight about it, loud and venomous and long, and Pete will probably throw something at him and Patrick will shout at him because he doesn’t _get_ it, he never did, how could he know what it’s like to uncomfortable in his own skin? Maybe that will break them up, maybe it will ruin everything, and maybe Pete will push himself past his limits in a different way and turn sharp and slim and miserable as a razor again. But maybe Patrick will woo him back with bits of fruit and those little 100-calorie packs of food, and maybe they‘ll grow old and round and happy together and never manage to make cookies because they‘ll be too busy feeding each other the dough.

Patrick smiles against the back of Pete’s neck while he’s falling asleep.


End file.
